


international small arms traffic blues

by ftmsteverogers



Category: Leverage
Genre: Multi, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftmsteverogers/pseuds/ftmsteverogers
Summary: Hitters always came with an expiration date, anyway. At some point Eliot’s scarred, beat-up body would give out, and it would be for them, and that would be love. Or at least the best approximation he could give.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 98
Kudos: 383





	international small arms traffic blues

It hadn’t taken Eliot very long to figure out he’d die for them. In the back of his head, Eliot had always known he’d die for someone if he went down this career path, and he could do a whole lot worse than them; had done worse than them, for most of his life. He may not have been a mastermind, but he knew a winning hand when he was dealt one, and Parker – Hardison – they were the closest a guy like him ever got to a royal flush.

 _Till my dying day,_ Eliot told Nate, and meant it. Didn’t matter if that day was in ten years or tomorrow, he was theirs until a bad guy dropped him, no sooner. He’d made his peace with that. He liked it, even. When he reached the end of his line, he wanted it to be in the service of these two, keeping them safe. 

He’d have leapt in front of a bullet for Sophie too, of course, and he already very nearly had done for Nate, but it was different with Hardison and Parker. Sometimes he woke from dreams of copper-blood and violence and could taste on the back of his tongue how good it would be to bleed out in their arms, for them, putting his life where it belonged in their cupped hands.

Hitters always came with an expiration date, anyway. At some point Eliot’s scarred, beat-up body would give out, and it would be for them, and that would be love. Or at least the best approximation he could give. 

Parker was draped over the back of the couch, one arm dangling down the back, where it swayed slightly. Hardison hummed to himself as he did recon for their next job, slightly off-key. Eliot finished peeling potatoes at the sink and began to cube them, listening to Hardison hum, Parker’s swaying arm in his peripheral vision. At some point she would get bored and come cartwheeling over to bother him, probably. She’d shove her clever little fingers into whatever bowl he was stirring and demand cookies, or an elaborate sundae, and Eliot would have to rehash the _dinner-first-quit-poking_ debate that never seemed to properly sink into her head.

He really didn’t know why that thought made him smile.

* * *

“Eliot, man, you’ve outdone yourself,” Hardison announced, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. He had a hand resting on his stomach, other arm on the back of Parker’s chair. Eliot felt a small pang of – not quite jealousy, but certainly something a bit more acid than fondness, at how easily the pair of them touched. Parker had no sense of personal space, but she was a bit of a minefield when not the one initiating, and Eliot knew better than to try.

He supposed he wasn’t a particularly easy person to touch, either. Go long enough without it and one begins to react to it with distrust, or at the very least, the same way one would to the sun after a year spent in the dark. That is, with a lot of squinting.

“It was a roast, man, it wasn’t hard,” Eliot said, standing so he could stack all their dishes and bring them to the sink. Parker had an unreadable expression on her face, and Eliot was glad to turn his back to them, if just so that he would not have to puzzle it out. 

“What’s for dessert?” she asked, and Eliot didn’t have to be facing her to know the way she’d put her chin in hand, fingertips tapping against her jaw. She was new to this whole mastermind thing, but Eliot knew the face she made when she was breaking into a safe. She wore concentration obviously, not trying to hide it. 

If he were a different man, Eliot might blow her off with a hand wave and a _haven’t you ever heard of buying your own ice cream?_ He might have even said this very thing, way back at the beginning, before he understood her.

Instead, he stood at the sink, and he washed the dishes, because someone had to do them, and he preferred to keep the space he occupied in the others’ home clean. “Gimme fifteen and I’ll get something goin’,” he said, hands firm and workmanlike as they scrubbed the pan. “You ‘n Hardison get the movie figured out.”

“What’re you in the mood for?” Hardison asked. “Parker’s been talking explosions all day.”

“Real life ones or movie ones?” Eliot asked, then thought better of it. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know. I don’t care. Whatever you guys want.”

To her credit, Eliot really wasn’t expecting a hundred and fifteen pounds of thief suddenly on his back, arms locked around his neck and legs around his waist. He made a startled noise, wet hands jumping to her thighs and soaking through her leggings immediately.

“Thanks for dinner,” Parker said, then kissed his cheek with a loud smacking sound. “Put a lot of chocolate in dessert, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” Eliot said, hair falling down around his face to hopefully hide his smile. 

Parker hopped off again, striding into the living room in order to find a movie with enough explosions, presumably. It was by mutual agreement that the three of them never watched heist movies – Parker got bored with bad lockpicking, and Hardison worked himself up into a full-on frenzy over tech inaccuracies. Eliot was never really paying attention to the screen when the three of them piled on the couch, though, his whole body attuned to every minute shift of his teammates’. Parker’s lips, just barely parted in surprise. Hardison’s laugh, loud and honest and real.

Eliot didn’t realize he was watching the blond bob of Parker’s ponytail as she picked through DVDs with a soft, fond look on his face until he caught Hardison looking at him while he did.

“What?” Eliot demanded, already on the defensive. “You’re gonna let her pick unsupervised? That’s how we ended up seein’ a Fast and Furious movie three times in a row.”

Hardison held up his hands in wordless surrender. He stood up from the table, and Eliot expected him to go to Parker immediately, but he crossed to the sink first instead. Eliot bristled, expecting – he didn’t know what, but it certainly wasn’t Hardison leaning in and kissing the cheek Parker hadn’t already. 

“Thanks, El,” Hardison said. “Would you make those double chocolate chip cookies you made last week?”

Eliot blinked, frozen in place. “Sure,” he said.

“Don’t take too long, y’know how Parker can fill up the whole couch if she ain’t careful,” Hardison added, retreating into the living room. “And I like Fast and Furious!”

Eliot shook his head, turning back to the sink. For a long moment, all he could do was stare at his hands, just barely trembling above the water.

* * *

Movie nights were different now that it was just the three of them. Before, it had been easy for Eliot to sink into the background, grabbing beers when people asked for them or disappearing halfway through to make and reappear with popcorn. Nobody looked at him too hard or asked him his opinion often, which was how Eliot was most comfortable, in the back with his eyes on the ones in his care. 

Now that Nate and Sophie were gone, there was no background to sink into. Hardison would ask his opinion on fight choreography and Parker would pour herself into his lap, no matter how many times Eliot tried to rearrange her more firmly onto Hardison. 

She was currently draped across the both of them, head on Hardison, feet crossed neatly at the ankle on Eliot. It was a little easier this way, at least, because when she was on both of them it felt less like Eliot was trespassing on intimacy that did not belong to him. He rested a hand delicately over the ball of Parker’s ankle, thumb stroking against the arch of her foot in an absent kind of way.

“Ooh, do more of that,” Parker chirped, pushing her foot into his hand.

“Uh,” Eliot said. He looked at Hardison, alarmed, but Hardison just shrugged.

“You heard the lady,” he said. 

Eliot squeezed Parker’s foot a little, just on principle. She made a content noise and nudged him again, toes poking into his stomach. 

On the television, a car blew up with a loud boom, flames spilling across the screen.

Parker’s foot was so small in Eliot’s hand. It disappeared completely inside the both of them. Her attention was on the film, and Hardison was very pointedly not looking at him, so Eliot did what he did best – he followed orders, thinking of how many times Parker held herself upside down by wedging her boot into weird spaces. He wondered sometimes if it hurt more than she let on, contorting herself just right to hang from the rafters or somersault through lasers.

It felt good to do this for her, pressing thumbs into each foot’s arch in turn. She didn’t make any more noises, but Eliot felt her slowly melt into the sofa, turning to liquid under his touch. He worked his way up her calves next, thinking of how much of her life she spent tensed and at attention. It always caught him by surprise, how much muscle there was on her tiny body. Her legs had to be strong to hold herself upside down in elevator shafts.

“Do my hands next,” Parker murmured when he reached her knees, barely loud enough to be heard over the TV’s volume. Eliot would have taken her meaning even if she hadn’t spoken at all, though, by the way that she pushed her hands at him, sitting up from Hardison’s lap to do it.

Eliot glanced over her shoulder at Hardison again – not asking _permission,_ because Parker was her own woman, but – there were rules, here, and he wasn’t sure he knew what they were. Hardison looked back at him with an expression that Eliot couldn’t read.

“Do they hurt?” Eliot asked, cupping the backs of Parker’s knuckles in his palm. His other fingertips felt out the base of her thumb, prodding the heel, trying to find which tender spots made her fingers twitch. Her nails pretty much always looked like shit, and her fingers were callused in strange places, but they were lovely. Well-shaped. Nimble. It was obvious that she had never broken something with a badly-thrown punch, favoring her taser and a hasty escape in cases where her careful lockpicking couldn’t get her in and out of an op in time.

The surge of awful, protective violence that welled up in Eliot nearly choked him, feeling that fragile hand in his.

“Aches sometimes,” Parker told him, and wrinkled her nose. “Hardison says I should do _stretches.”_

Hardison snorted softly. “You should, mama. Keeps you in fighting shape.”

“That’s what we have Eliot for,” Parker scoffed.

Eliot looked at where the pad of his thumb rested directly over her lifeline. “That’s right,” he said, very quiet. “That’s my job.”

Eliot’s hands were rough as hell, several fingers crooked from having been broken and reset more than once. Sometimes they hurt so bad in the winter that he had to soak them in epsom salt baths, not even mentioning his bum knee, or the scar between two ribs that ached with weather changes. This was his job: to weather the hurts and aches so the other two could keep their pretty hands.

Parker raised his hand to her face, where she rubbed her cheek shamelessly against it. “Sweet Eliot,” she cooed. “I like when you’re in a cuddly mood.”

“I’m not – don’t say – _Parker,”_ Eliot protested. “You’re making it weird.”

Parker looked at him blankly. “This is weird?”

The oven beeped, thank God, so Eliot rose from the couch and extricated himself from her. Hardison was telling her something in a low rumbling murmur, but blood was rushing too hard in Eliot’s ears for him to hear what he said. He was too busy retrieving the cookies and setting them on the cooling rack, heart going a mile a minute.

“Cooperate,” he muttered, pressing a fist against his sternum until the bite of it brought him back to himself. “Go be fuckin’ normal for once.”

When he made it back to the living room, a small plate of cookies in hand, Parker was tucked under one of Hardison’s arms, frowning.

“Here,” Eliot said, a peace offering. “You can finish the movie without me, I gotta turn in for the night.”

The flash of disappointed hurt on Parker’s face made Eliot feel like shit, and it was worse when he saw it echoed on Hardison’s. 

“Whatever you need, man,” Hardison said, resigned.

“You’re gonna miss the best part,” Parker said, jabbing a finger at the TV screen.

Eliot put the plate down on the arm of the sofa. “I’ll be back for the briefing tomorrow morning,” he said, and fled like a coward.

* * *

The thing was.

The thing was, Eliot hadn’t really planned to live this long in the first place. First he’d burned alive from the inside out in his childhood home, a bubbling geyser just waiting to blow. Then he’d fucked off to basic training at eighteen and figured he’d die in combat, easy as that; there were worse ways to go, like rotting to death in his father’s small-town hardware store and marrying his goddamn highschool sweetheart like everyone expected him to.

He also started fucking men in the army, and that was a death sentence in and of itself.

Then, of course, he had to go and get himself shot very badly in Iraq and got sent home two years into his first tour. Damien Moreau was the one who found him and offered to pay his medical bills as part of a larger agreement, and, well... that was a more subtle kind of death, but it was still a death. Just the slow-moving kind.

Now Eliot was looking the other side of thirty-five dead in the eye and felt mounting panic at the thought, at the reality of it, at the two people who relied on him. He’d never imagined it would take this long to die for them.

He also hadn’t thought he would care much what the two of them thought of this, but there was a reason he kept these convictions quiet, pressed behind the backs of his teeth like that would stop them from knowing, somehow. Like everybody in the world didn’t know by looking at him just how easy he was for them, so fucking easy, soft at the center like a brown apple core. 

There was a time in the not-too-distant past when the knowledge of being in love with them would have appalled him, maybe sent him all the way to horror. He couldn’t muster up anything more demanding than resignation, now, and the hunger pangs of exhaustion.

Eliot put himself to bed in his apartment, allowing himself a small private groan as his back sank into the mattress. He didn’t like vocally acknowledging his pain in front of other people. He’d gotten shot before in front of Parker and Hardison and hadn’t made a sound at all, didn’t like the idea of them hearing he was hurt and thinking – he didn’t know what.

That he was reaching the end of his usefulness, maybe. That he had the aches and pains of an old man, and a body as bad as one, too. What was the point of keeping around a hitter who couldn’t hit? Eliot was still good for the job now, and would be reliable for another five to ten years, but that wasn’t a very long contract. He’d lived out longer contracts than that.

It wasn’t that he wanted to die. On the contrary, he’d finally found something that made living feel good and right and natural. But he’d always felt like he’d been made with dying built inside, just waiting to come out. Like a promise. Like a prophecy.

Eliot lay in bed and looked up at the ceiling for a very long time.

* * *

They made it halfway through the next op before everything went sideways. Their ops usually went sideways, and Eliot wasn’t _surprised,_ per se, more resigned than anything else, and Parker always had as many backup plans as Nate used to. More, even. Eliot trusted that she knew what she was doing.

And if that meant he had to punch out a good seven security guards so she could break into a security vault uninterrupted? Well, Eliot had been itching for a fight for days, needing something to rattle his teeth in his skull a little and make him human again, make him real. It probably didn’t speak well of him that he felt most human when he had blood in his mouth, his or otherwise.

Human might have been the wrong word. Eliot had been called a guard dog enough times that he’d grown to take pride in it, in the ferality, in the idea of belonging to someone like that. Hardison had put his hand right at the base of his skull once, fingers sinking deep into dirty-blond locks of hair to probe around for a possible fracture – all he’d found was a sizeable goose egg, thank God, but that _hand_ – Eliot would have done a number of unspeakable things to feel that warm weight on his nape –

A security guard threw a punch and Eliot smacked the heel of his hand into the guy’s chin, making his head snap back with a guttural sound. It was a good sound. Satisfying as hell. Eliot knew this was what made him a bad man, liking that noise, and the way the shock of the hit sent the impact all the way up his arm, the way the other man keeled over backward.

“C’mon, who’s next,” Eliot jeered, beckoning to the sixth guard. “Don’t make me come over there to get you.”

They rushed him at once, the last two, which was a smart tactical decision. Eliot threw himself into the fight the way he always did, with controlled recklessness – he bared his teeth like a wild fucking animal, like he hadn’t been let off the chain in months. He heard the crack of his head hitting the linoleum beneath him before he even felt the fall, eyes going briefly unfocused from pain while one of the two guards scrambled to his feet and took off down the hallway.

“Are you _rabid?”_ his assailant hissed at him, unable to completely contain his fear.

“Wanna find out?” Eliot rasped, biting down hard on the arm that pinned him to the floor. The other man cried out, recoiling, and Eliot followed him, punching once, twice, until he fell unconscious. “Punk,” Eliot added under his breath. 

“Eliot, we got company,” came Hardison’s strained voice over comms. Eliot was up and running before he finished the last word.

He smacked his earpiece more firmly into place with his palm. “Talk.”

“Pissed off guard coming at Parker,” Hardison said in the panicky-fast way he always talked when Parker was in danger.

“On my way,” Eliot growled, picking up the pace.

He arrived just in time to yank the guard back by the collar of his suit jacket, throwing him a good four feet away from where Parker was trying to pick the vault’s lock. Her eyes said _thank you_ for the quick moment their gazes locked.

“Y’ever think about picking on someone your own size?” Eliot rolled his shoulders back just to feel everything drop into place, hands curled into practiced fists just in front of him. He and the final guard sized each other up in tandem, and Eliot braced for it to hurt, almost wanted it to. He had Parker behind him, at his back. She needed him to be the buffer between her and this man who intended to rough her up, and Eliot would take it, he would. He’d take a lot worse than this if she asked. He’d do it even if she never asked at all.

It took two solid strides before he could throw himself savagely at the other man, upper lip curling to expose his teeth in an actual goddamn snarl.

* * *

It wasn’t until the three of them made it back to base that Eliot’s head really started hurting. He went straight to the medicine cabinet, rummaging past Hardison’s adderall and the communal melatonin to retrieve the well-used painkillers. He tossed two back and grimaced as he swallowed, making a mental note to drink a full glass of water before bed. 

“Hey, man,” Hardison said softly from the doorway. Eliot slid him a sidelong glance. “Where you hurt?”

Eliot shrugged. “Hit my head. Ain’t a big deal.”

“See, those two sentences kinda cancel each other out,” Hardison told him, shouldering into the bathroom so he could reach for Eliot. “C’mon, lemme take a look –”

Eliot ducked away from his hands, head jerking back. “It’s fine,” he said, trying to wave him off. “I’m fine.”

Hardison’s hands hovered in the air for a moment before they fell down again. “You aren’t rabid, Eliot. You know that, right?”

Eliot scoffed, rolling his eyes as he tied his hair back. The back of his head stung hard when it pulled at his scalp, but like hell was he going to admit that now. “Of course I do,” he answered. “Just lookin’ for an excuse to bite him.”

“Sure,” Hardison agreed, and leaned against the sink. “‘Cause you usually need an excuse for that kinda thing.”

Eliot decided he didn’t care for the way Hardison was looking at him in the slightest. “Go away and lemme lick my wounds in peace,” he grumbled, capping the ibuprofen bottle to put it back in the cabinet. “Where’s Parker?”

“Giving the money to our clients, she likes that part.” Hardison’s arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes boring into Eliot’s. “You got blood in your hair.” 

One of Eliot’s hands came up to touch the very base of his skull and found a small sticky-tacky spot. “Huh,” he said.

“Huh,” Hardison repeated derisively. “Huh, he says. Sit your ass down.” Eliot’s eyes narrowed, mouth opening to argue, but Hardison just jabbed a pointer finger at the lip of the bathtub, eyebrows arching. “Sit your ass!”

“Alright already, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Eliot said, relenting. He eased himself down onto the porcelain rim, swinging feet inside the tub so his back was turned to the rest of the room. He was expecting the hand on the back of his neck, so he didn’t jump, but God, did Hardison know what it meant that he’d allow this? He still slept with his back to a wall most nights, just to protect the parts of himself he couldn’t watch. Hardison’s hand smoothed across the soft wispy hair that curled at the base of his skull and Eliot’s breath caught in the back of his throat, eyes squeezing closed.

“Looks shallow,” Hardison mused. “You got off easy.”

“Betcha feel silly for going to all this dumb trouble, now.” Eliot looked down at his hands, resting palm-up and open on his knees. 

Hardison’s hand tightened for a brief moment, barely a twitch of fingers, but Eliot still felt it. “I’d go to a lotta dumb trouble for you,” Hardison said, each word carefully chosen. “Hold still. Gonna get the antiseptic.”

Eliot held still. His toes curled against the base of the bathtub.

“Stay here tonight,” Hardison murmured. He gently poured antiseptic wash over the base of Eliot’s skull, and even though it stung, Eliot didn’t move a muscle. He just breathed through it, keeping his hands soft where they lay. “You can take the good bed.”

“I’m not kicking you guys out outta your bed, Hardison.” The sharp sting of the antiseptic faded into the duller ache of Hardison applying neosporin. “I’ll drive home.”

Hardison snorted. “Parker sleeps in the air ducts half the time anyway. I’ll take the futon.”

“Damn it, Hardison, I’m not gonna –”

“Look, I don’t want you driving with a possible concussion,” Hardison interrupted firmly. “Quit arguing, I need my hitter in good shape.”

Eliot’s head throbbed. He quit arguing.

* * *

Hardison’s pillow smelled like him. Eliot pressed his cheek into the pillow, face screwed up, and thought – this was as close as he would ever get. Parker and Hardison slept here, together, in this bed. Eliot allowed himself to briefly imagine how it would feel to be captured between them like he was any other score; Hardison at his back, Parker nestled against his front, arms interlocking around his waist; he imagined it, and he let it hurt, the wanting roaring so big that he could feel it ignite from a spark to a brush fire.

 _My hitter,_ Hardison had said, the possessive landing so gentle, so sweet.

Eliot slept deeply and well and did not want to interrogate why.

* * *

“Does this hurt?” Parker asked, poking a bruise high on Eliot’s bicep.

“Not particularly,” Eliot answered, and continued beating eggs for breakfast. If he was going to do things like stay over, he was damn well going to be useful.

Her fingertips jabbed at a different one just above his leather wrist cuff. “How about this?”

“No.”

“This?”

“Parker,” Eliot growled, swatting at her hand, but he wasn’t particularly surprised when she managed to yank it back fast enough. “I’m cookin’, here.”

“All you do is cook and punch.” Her head was at an angle, hair falling in her eyes, when Eliot looked over his shoulder to level a glare in her direction.

“And it’s all for your benefit, ain’t it, darlin’?” he asked, reaching out to stroke the hair out of her eyes before he could think better of it. “Would you ever eat a vegetable if it wasn’t for me?”

Parker shrugged. “Probably not.”

Eliot thumbed over her cheek as he withdrew his hand. Her skin was so soft, so warm. “There you go, then,” he said with finality, turning back to his bowl. That ought to be the end of it.

He wasn’t expecting cool fingertips tucking up under his t-shirt, flat palm unerringly drawn to the largest bruise that splashed over his ribs. He froze, whisk poised above bowl, and didn’t know what to say, what to do. Parker pressed a little. Eliot put the whisk down.

“Does this one hurt?” she asked softly.

He bowed his head just slightly. “A little.”

“Alec said you tried to hide a head injury,” she added, and there wasn’t any accusation in her voice, but Eliot thought there probably would be if he denied it. “He said you were bleeding.”

“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” he explained, and picked up his whisk again. She didn’t move her hand. “It really wasn’t a big deal, Parker. Y’know I take care of myself.”

“You still have to tell me those things,” she insisted. “I need to know how you’re hurt to make plans.”

Eliot knew she was right, same as he knew Nate would never have asked – he’d have simply worked with the assumption that Eliot could handle his shit until proven otherwise (and he was _never_ proven otherwise), which was how Eliot liked it. But Parker was a very different kind of mastermind. Eliot sighed deeply.

“Sorry,” he said, and looked at her again. “Next time, I’ll tell ya.”

“Hopefully you don’t _get_ another head injury,” Parker said, eyes narrowing. “Stop it. Wrecks my schemes.”

Eliot huffed a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

Parker’s cheek pressed against his shoulder blade, and Eliot felt it all the way through him, an ache as sweet as any other contusion.

* * *

He made it three more days before he called Sophie. He’d been holding back; he remembered their conversation right after she’d started her first sabbatical, how mortifying it had been to have to ask for that kind of help. He’d grown a lot since then – in general and also specifically in relation to Hardison and Parker. He no longer spent energy pretending they irritated him. He knew what the restless, rabbit-fast feeling was beneath his breastbone, and it wasn’t annoyance, no matter how panicky it made him. 

“Oh, hello, Eliot,” Sophie greeted warmly, and Eliot knew from the first syllable that she had very recently been on the grift. There was a certain cadence to her vowels. A very distinctive cadence. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Nothin’, really,” Eliot said, kicking his feet up on his coffee table. “What did you just steal?”

“Nothing, really,” she echoed, teasing, and Eliot could hear the clink of manicured nails against glass. Maybe against gemstones, knowing Sophie. “Still honeymooning.”

Eliot snorted. An eight-month-long honeymoon sounded about right. He doubted they’d ever stop. “What time is it in Paris?” 

“Athens, actually,” Sophie sighed dreamily. “Mid-morning. Must be late, for you.”

It was eleven p.m., but Eliot wasn’t getting much sleep these days, anyway. “Late enough I ain’t with the others,” he agreed. He bit the inside of his cheek. “...I’m starting to lose my shit, Sophie.”

There was a brief pause, then a soft, thoughtful sound. “I was beginning to wonder when it would finally give.”

Eliot put his face in his hand. “You know, so I gotta assume Nate knows. Do they?”

“Do Hardison and Parker know how you feel?” she clarified. “I’m not sure. You saw how long it took them to work themselves out.”

“Four fucking years,” Eliot groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “Who knows if I got that kinda time.”

Another pause, then, but this felt like a different type. “Is this really a conversation you should be having with me?” she asked, audibly choosing each word with care. “Perhaps your partners ought to hear what you mean by that.”

“They aren’t my partners,” Eliot said sharply. “And they know what I mean already, they see what I do for a living.”

Sophie made a noise that was neither agreement nor disagreement. “You certainly project an air of invulnerability. Perhaps they haven’t followed this line of logic to its conclusion.”

Eliot’s chest hurt. That sounded plausible enough. “Dunno if they want me, anyway.”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” Sophie sniffed. “I have a brunch to get to, will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” Eliot sighed. “What’re you doin’ now? Cozying up to a mark?”

“Securing a land deal,” she corrected. “And then cozying up to my husband.”

“Gross,” Eliot said. “Use protection.”

Sophie laughed out loud and promptly hung up on him.

* * *

The brewpub may have been his secondary job, but it was still a job. Eliot trusted Hardison to handle the money – he owned the place, after all – but Eliot managed the cooks, the waitstaff, the menu. Sometimes when he felt at his lowest, he’d tag out one of the usual cooks and take over for a shift, burying himself in dinner service and pretending that all he had to worry about was timing steaks or making a fresh pot of chili.

Other times, he sent everyone home early and deep-cleaned the whole kitchen himself. That felt good too, if only because it kept him out of Hardison and Parker’s apartment, and therefore out of reach for their questioning faces. He’d never been afraid of hard work, and it was either that or obliterate a punching bag, anyway. Those tended to cost more money than good sponges and cleaner. 

He’d accepted a while ago that although the pub had Hardison’s name on the lease, this was a place that had been acquired specifically for him. Eliot knew with equal certainty that he would never have accepted it, had Hardison offered it to him as a present like a normal person. It took a smart man to figure out a way to engineer the situation so Eliot would accept the gift of a lifetime without trying to wriggle out of it on principle – but then, Hardison was always the smartest man in the room. 

Eliot was kneeling, polishing the aluminum cabinet doors, when it all hit him a little too hard and he had to pause with his forehead pressed to the countertop. Why did they go to so much effort for him? All he did was growl and push them away, but they kept coming, again and again. Didn’t matter what he said to them, how many times he bolted. 

“E, you good?” Hardison asked from the doorway.

Eliot raised his head, meeting Hardison’s eyes with his own red-rimmed ones. “Yeah, ‘m good,” he replied, standing. He kept his posture straight-backed, loose and easy like he hadn’t been caught visibly upset. “What’s up?”

“You keep disappearing,” Parker said, hopping up onto the kitchen counter. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Hell, Parker,” Eliot said. “I just cleaned those counters.”

Parker stayed right where she was, feet kicking idly.

“...No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Eliot muttered, retrieving his dish rag to turn back to the sink and keep scrubbing. “Just givin’ you two your space.”

“That’s stupid,” Parker said. “We’re a team, we don’t need space.”

Eliot looked to Hardison, sending him one of those _how do I gently explain to her that she’s crazy?_ looks that they’d perfected over the years. But Hardison just shrugged, eyebrows raising like maybe Eliot was the crazy one this time.

“Only reason I haven’t been bugging you non-stop is ‘cause I was trying to give you _your_ space,” Hardison explained. “So maybe we can collectively knock it off.”

“If I’m hanging around all the time, how are you two supposed to – to do your thing?” Eliot demanded, flicking his dish towel over his shoulder. “Team’s fine, team’s great, but I’m not gonna start busting in on fuckin’ date night ‘cause you think we need to bond!”

Parker blinked. “Are you not a part of date night?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Eliot blinked back. “ _What?”_

“Date night,” Hardison repeated patiently. “We were kind of hoping you were included in that.”

Eliot could feel something not unlike hysteria crowding up his throat. His hand clenched and unclenched around the same fistful of his apron, eyes jumping from Parker to Hardison and back again.

“But – you – we aren’t _dating,”_ Eliot tried.

“News to me,” Parker said.

Eliot opened and closed his mouth several times.

“Look,” Hardison started. “If you don’t... if you don’t want to, that’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“Obviously,” Parker added. “But you want to, so you should.”

Eliot’s head swam. He gripped the counter behind himself, color draining out of his face, and just – looked at them, helpless, lips half-parted. Of all the possible scenarios he’d turned and turned in his head, this hadn’t even occurred to him. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, stuck to the roof of it.

“Did we break you?” Parker asked, brow creasing.

“Little bit,” Eliot managed, hoarse.

Hardison was suddenly at his side, and wasn’t it usually Parker who pulled those weird disappearing and reappearing acts? But Hardison was right there, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and Eliot didn’t have the wherewithal to push him away. He just stood there and let himself be held, eyes on Parker’s thoughtful face.

“I want to kiss you,” she said, and hopped off the counter so she could walk up to him. “Yes or no?”

Eliot nodded jerkily. Parker only had to tip her chin up to kiss him, she was barely two inches shorter, and Eliot made a very small sound when they made contact. Her lips were wind-chapped but very soft. She was warm, so goddamn warm, and the mean little bite of her teeth to his lower lip had him clutching at her hip, squeezing at the perfect handhold of the bone. She made a deeply approving noise and bit him again, which he honestly should have seen coming, considering everything Eliot knew about her. 

Hardison still had an arm around him, and he held Eliot tighter, thumb stroking circles into the ball of Eliot’s shoulder. It was just as maddening as he’d thought it would be, to be pinned between the two of them, caught in the snare of their arms like an animal. In theory, he could have broken away from them very easily, with a concentrated two movements – a shove, a snap of fist to solar plexus – but in reality, he would stay wherever they put him till they changed their minds. There was nothing they could do that would make him leave first.

This was why they scared him, these two. No one else had ever brought him so effectively, so willingly, to his knees.

“Good,” Parker said, satisfied. She drew back and looked him over with a critical eye, taking in the dilation of Eliot’s pupils, the flush of his cheeks, the way his breathing came harder and deeper. He watched her catalogue the evidence of his desire, all the little tics and tells that Sophie had taught her over the years. “Now kiss Hardison,” she said, lips turning up at the corners.

“If you do that kinda thing,” Hardison corrected. Eliot looked at him. Hardison’s expression was very measured, but there was no small amount of fear behind his eyes, at asking for this. “Never could make up my mind about which way you swing.”

Eliot didn’t make himself form an answer about whatever the hell he was, just kissed him hard, twisting around enough in his hold to do it. He swallowed Hardison’s gasp of surprise, pressing closer, cupping his face in the palm of his hand to keep him right there, right where he wanted him. He never wanted Hardison to be ashamed of this, of him, of the act of wanting him; Eliot had felt enough shame in his life for the both of them. 

Hardison ran hotter than Parker, and Eliot found himself chasing that heat with everything he had in him. Or maybe he was the one who was getting hot. The hum of wanting and relief of having was a heady mix, making him buzz beneath the skin, and Jesus, he could really feel the fact that he hadn’t slept with anyone in two years, avoiding the whole mess since he’d thought he couldn’t have _this._

“Hey, hey,” Hardison breathed against his lips, pulling back. Eliot made a frustrated sound and tried to lean in again, but Hardison sank fingers into his hair and tugged to make him stop, holding tight.

Eliot panted for breath, head just barely tipped back from Hardison’s pulling.

“Slow down,” Hardison said, not unkindly. “I gotcha. Message received, yeah?”

“That was pretty,” Parker said. When Eliot glanced at her, she was seated on the counter again, watching them. “I knew Eliot would be a good kisser.”

“Why do I gotta slow down?” Eliot rasped. “Apparently I’ve been missin’ the uptake for a while, now I gotta play catch-up.”

Hardison’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. “We’re in this for the long haul,” he said. “Me and Parker. There’s no need to rush, baby.”

 _Baby._ Eliot’s hand tightened so much around his fistful of Hardison’s shirt that he was nervous for a second it might tear in his grasp. He could still remember the way Hardison had spluttered out a _it’s the universal ‘baby’!_ way back when, when Nate had questioned him about it. But Eliot had known it was meant for him, hadn’t he. He’d known.

“Would be pretty unsanitary to keep this movin’ in the kitchen,” he admitted, and waited until Hardison’s fingers relaxed in his hair to take a step back. 

Hardison smiled at him, then, a slow warm smile that made Eliot’s toes curl in his boots.

“We could take this to someone’s bedroom,” Parker suggested, making Eliot spin around.

“That’s something you want?” he asked, bewildered. “I thought...”

Parker shrugged. “I’m not into it for me, but it’s fun to watch, sometimes.”

Pink crept down Eliot’s throat at the knowledge that she was thinking about it, watching him and Hardison fool around. He was thinking about it too, now, that was for sure. 

He walked up to her, stepping in between the vee of her legs to put his hands on her knees, to study her face. “How about kissing?” he clarified. “You like that?”

She shrugged a shoulder uncomfortably. “I get bored after a while, but I like it in small doses.”

Eliot nodded, letting that sink in. “You just lemme know anytime you wanna tap out,” he told her, reaching up to touch her cheek.

“We got a system, don’t we, babe?” Hardison said, and Eliot could sense him at his back before he felt Hardison’s hands at his hips, but it still made his gut clench when it happened. “Red yellow green. Easier than saying yes and no.”

Eliot’s own complicated relationship with the word yes sprung to mind, how difficult it was to lean into things he wanted. He didn’t mention any of it. They already knew. He just nodded, leaning back against Hardison’s solid weight, and allowed his eyes to drift closed. Two big, warm hands smoothed up his stomach from his hips, and he sighed, the back of his head landing on Hardison’s shoulder.

“What do you want?” Hardison murmured in his ear. His lips brushed the shell of it as he talked. “You gotta say it, El. You gotta say it so I know for sure.”

“Want it all,” Eliot admitted. The words were sharp in his mouth, like he was tonguing around a switchblade. “I’ll take anything you got. Hell, I’d take a whole lot less than this. More than enough just gettin’ to love you out loud.”

This sounded a lot more pathetic spoken than it had in his mind, but Eliot wouldn’t take it back if he could. They needed to know. They needed to know that he loved them.

Hardison kissed the back of Eliot’s neck, brushing his hair to the side to do it. “I love you too,” he said directly into his skin, the ache of the words so sharp that Eliot could feel the muscles of his stomach go taut.

“Me also,” Parker piped up. “Just so you know.”

Eliot reached blindly for her hand, hissing a breath through his teeth when Hardison kissed his neck again at the same time Parker tangled their fingers together. 

“Hardison’s place is closest,” he managed, and felt the same swoop in his gut as he did every time he rose victorious from a fight, when Hardison’s arm tightened around his waist in answer.

* * *

The very first job they’d pulled, the five of them, Eliot had rubbed his sternum through his shirt to calm his racing heart and thought – _I can still walk it back. I can go, and they won’t stop me._

It only took one, maybe two more jobs before he realized he’d been lying to himself, but not even about what he’d assumed. It didn’t matter if the others would or wouldn’t drag him back, because Eliot’s magnetic north had been shifted the moment he’d laid eyes on them, and every road now led directly back to this. To them.

To Hardison’s sweet sigh when Eliot touched him, to the flexible way Parker wrapped around Eliot from behind as they arranged themselves on the bed. She put her back to the headboard, arm clasped possessively around Eliot’s chest. “Lay back on me while Alec does his thing,” she whispered in his ear, and he did as she asked, let her tangle her limbs around him.

“Let me,” Hardison said, voice rough and honest as he joined them on the bed, splaying a hand out over Eliot’s bare stomach. “You take such good care of us. Lemme take care of you too.”

“We want to,” Parker added, and set teeth to the vulnerable hinge of Eliot’s jaw.

What else was there to say? Eliot was reeling, and he’d never been much good at talking, anyway. He felt the soft rasp of Parker’s shirt against his bare spine, Hardison’s eyes searing into his own, and nodded. He tipped his chin up, silently asking for a kiss that Hardison gave him without question, without reserve.

* * *

In the quiet, in the dark, Eliot traced his fingertips up and down the slope of Hardison’s arm. Parker was curled up behind him, spooning him tight, and every so often Eliot felt her breath sigh across his shoulder blade. He’d been surprised, the first time Hardison had worn a shirt tight enough to show his muscles – he’d allowed the softness of Hardison’s personality to fool him for a while, although he expected it now, the hard press of his body. His well-built shoulders and strong arms were so much gentler than Eliot’s, who had been well-tested in battle. 

He valued this gentleness more than he could say. Hardison was built for holding.

“You got some big thoughts happening in there?” Hardison asked, tapping Eliot’s forehead. “Looked far away for a minute.”

Eliot hummed noncommittally and traced fingertips over the ridge of Hardison’s brow. “Didn’t think I’d make it this far, is all,” he murmured, remembering what Sophie said, _perhaps your partners ought to hear what you mean by that._ “Thought I’d get taken out a long time ago.”

“What?” Parker asked, voice going from sleepy to razor-sharp over the course of the syllable. “You thought you’d be dead?”

“I’m pleasantly surprised, don’t get me wrong,” Eliot said.

Neither of them said anything in reply, but Hardison’s expression was stricken. Eliot immediately wished he could swallow back the words again, could go back to a minute ago when the three of them were happy and sweetly unfolding their new affection. 

“I’m not Nate,” Parker said eventually. Her fingertips bit into the meat of Eliot’s bicep, a sharp reminder of her presence. “I don’t have any backup plans where one of you dies.”

“I know, darlin’,” Eliot sighed. “There’s just gonna come a day when I get hit on the head one too many times. Got used to that idea a long time ago.”

Parker nudged her nose against the back of his skull, where his bruise was still tender. He found he didn’t mind the ache. “Then we’ll make a new plan,” she announced. “One that involves less head-hitting.” 

“But that’s my job,” Eliot protested. “I’m a hitter, I hit.”

“You’re good at more than one thing.” Hardison cradled his face in his hand, fingers tangling in long hair. “We’ll make it work, babe.”

What would that even look like? Eliot frowned, imagining a version of what they had that didn’t involve him putting himself between them and the bad men they hurt. His heart kicked up to a rapid-fire beat, and Hardison could probably see it on his face, just how badly he didn’t like that idea.

“We’ll make it work,” Hardison repeated, firmer. “We can’t do this without you, it’s not an option.”

 _You could get yourself new muscle,_ Eliot didn’t say. _You could replace me so easy._

Maybe Parker could hear it anyway, though, because she set teeth to the back of his neck and said, “Quit arguing. You’re ours, aren’t you? Won’t you let us keep you?”

Theirs. Yes, he was theirs, and if they wanted to bust their asses trying to save an old, used-up hitter, that was their prerogative. The wave of enormous, starving love roared up in him louder than thunder, louder than his own heartbeat.

“Okay,” Eliot said, and quit arguing. “Okay. Alright.”

The sweet clasp of Parker and Hardison’s arms was a lock he’d never try to break. Eliot had been well and truly stolen, thieved out from inside the wall safe of his own making, and he hadn’t even noticed until they told him. Hardison drew him into a kiss, Parker’s safe-cracking smile pressed into his shoulder, and Eliot knew he’d found something like freedom, something like home.


End file.
